When The Hurricanes Came
by The Brat Prince
Summary: No matter how much we’d drifted apart through the seasons, right before the New Year rolled in we’d meet up at Jimbo’s cabin. It was a way to get to know each other again. K Squared.
1. If Bridges Gotta Fall, You'll Fall Too

_When The Hurricanes Came_

_Chapter One_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Here, have some k squared.

_

* * *

Lights black; heads bang. You're my drug, we live it. You're drunk, you need it. Real love, I'll give it. So we're bound to linger on. We drink the fatal drop. Then love until we bleed. Then fall apart in parts. You wasted your time on my heart, you've burned. And if bridges gotta fall, then you'll fall too. _

_-Until We Bleed by Kleerup ft. Lykke Li-_

* * *

Life is funny. Life is fucking hilarious.

When it wants to be.

Let me tell you a story.

In my mind's eye, I'm imagining myself decked out like Will Smith in the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. I'm rockin' the neon tee and the baggy jeans and the baseball cap tilted at the funkiest angle; man, in my mind's eye, I'm the hottest shit this town has ever seen. This is a story all about how my life got twisted, turned upside down.

Except I'm not Will Smith, South Park isn't Bel Air, and I'm convinced that the amount of faggotry in this thing would never make it past TV censors.

Still, man, it's an unfuckingbelievable story. It's got drama, it's got action, and it's even got a romantic kiss sequence, or two. If you'd told me a year ago that I'd be a part of something like this, I would have told you to stick it where the sun don't shine, if you catch my drift.

The place it started at, if you'll fucking believe it, is the middle of the woods. Okay, that's not quite right. I guess since the joint kind of served as a catalyst for all heaven and hell raining down on my head, I should give it a proper description. Here goes; everything really began in a tiny little house of logs on the top of a mountain in the one place that always made me feel like king of the world.

Let me elaborate. When you drive up the mountains to Jimbo Kern's cabin, it's like reality just falls away. Everything gets eerily dark on the winding roads, but the lights of South Park twinkle below like Christmas bulbs strung out across the landscape. Between the shadows of skeletal trees, the lights are like a breadcrumb path reminding me that home's only a little ways away.

Sometimes I'd sit on Jimbo's porch and wish to God that I could extinguish all those tiny lights. Of course, I went up there to forget all about home.

It was kind of a yearly tradition of my friends'; no matter how much we'd drifted apart through the seasons, right before the New Year rolled in, we'd meet up at Jimbo's cabin. At first we did it so we could have somewhere to fool around during college, outside the watchful eyes of our suddenly too-clingy parents. They all suffered empty-nest syndrome like whoa.

Then, once academia came to an end, it became something more. It turned into a way to get to know each other once more. We'd all drifted apart that fucking much.

Of course, the drift was kind of on purpose.

I have to backtrack here. I have to tell you about myself, and my three friends. These guys and I have been Siamese quadruplets since birth. I don't think any of us could remember a time the others didn't exist. The best part about it is that our closeness is enforced by everyone we know; our parents, our siblings, our other friends, and even random strangers in town.

Why is that the best thing?

Ha! 'Cause none of us even like each other that much, now.

I'll get to that shit though. Introduction time.

First we have Kyle.

He gets to be first, because he's first in everything. He was the captain of our high school b-ball team, he was the motherfucking valedictorian, and it doesn't hurt that he's not half bad looking.

Kyle, hell. There's more to say about him than I could stick in one of those fancy schmancy college psych books. He went through university on an acid trip, I swear. He outfoxed us all; while we were rooting for him to graduate summa cum laude, he turned into an artsy fartsy type. You know, ganja and Pink Floyd and a deep love of incense? It shocked the fuck out of all of us, because Kyle had _always_ been the straitlaced one- if you didn't get that from my whole first in everything spiel. He was the one most likely to go Wall Street.

Anyway, he did end up getting his shit together real quick the second he figured out his semesters were coming to a close and his parents were going to leave him standing with all those tuition checks. Post college he was back to being the future nine to fiver we always thought he would be, only some of the incense wafts off his suit every now and then.

He ditched the lifestyle, but he didn't ditch his fucking commune; if that's what you want to call it. It's an apartment he shared with some kids we went to high school with, real like minded individuals.

If I were him I wouldn't have come back to South Park at all, but then he couldn't suckle off mommy's tit for free handouts and home cooked meals.

Truth be told, I never liked Kyle much. He's kind of a douche.

Second is Stan. Stan's one of those ridiculously awesome people; you know, one of the rarest breed. A generally good guy, nice to everybody, but only actually hands out his attention to one or two chosen few. Kyle used to be chosen.

Man, he was like the one dude in all the world that could pull Stan out of his head long enough to actually have some fuckin' fun.

The operative word here? Was.

Somewhere around the time Kyle decided to go through his artistic-hippie phase in college, he and Stan split ways.

This might be because Stan matured faster. He'd done his drink and smoke and fuck thing back in high school, when he was playing hockey and hoping for a shot at the big leagues. Once he blew out his knee 'round our junior year, it became obvious he was going to have to do something different with his life. Problem was, he struggled with what.

Still, he walked through fire and survived, man. Now he'd turned into- get this, a kindergarten teacher. Every day from eight to three, he was playing babysitter to a horde of snot nosed brats. Weirdest thing was, he likes it.

I couldn't be around that many children. Swear, it gives me hives just thinking about it.

Anyway, salary man versus sweetheart teacher; sounds like some romantic movie in the making. Played out like that too. Stan couldn't stand being in the same room with Kyle and his _vulgarity_ but meanwhile, Kyle developed this huge boner for his ex best friend.

I'll get back to that in a second. Let's talk about me.

It's my favorite subject.

I went to state school and got a degree in liberal arts, which is kind of like saying I got a degree in partying like a frat boy. Don't mean shit to all those prospective employers. So right at the beginning of our story? Yeah, I was working at the Park County mall. It's kind of like hell, if hell smelled vaguely of Cinnabun and was populated by tiny, screaming children and people gone off their bi-polar meds. Twenty four seven, man.

Sometimes I thought about wandering into a dark nightclub where some famous guy was singing. He'd meet my eyes across the room and realize I was the one for-

Wait. Unbelievable. You guys aren't actually falling for this crock, are you?

Let me set that record straight right now; I'm male.

I may be gay, but I'm not a fuckin' pansy. Even back before this all started, I wasn't lying in wait like some damsel in distress for my knight in shining whatever. Ideally, the only thing that would've been shining when my future guy got to me was my cock, after he spitshi- oh, hey.

Guess I'm getting slight graphic here, but then I am Kenny McCormick. The only rating I _have_ is NC-17.

And I am gay. I just want to say that right now. Otherwise you might start wondering when I get to describing this last fucker.

His name's Cartman. Eric Cartman.

And at the beginning of our story, back at the cabin, I was head over heels in love with him.

So do you want to take a gander at how I went from that to where I am right this damn second?

Oh wait, you don't know where I am. Guess what?

I'm going to tell you how this ends right now.

I'm staring down the barrel of a gun, and for the first time in my life, I feel complete.

* * *

A/N: Um, okay, explanation time. This fic is based off a concept I've been throwing around in my head for a few weeks. It is going to be multi-chaptered, but very short in comparison to everything else I'm doing. It IS k squared. There are going to be mentions of Kenny/Cartman (is there a name for that?) and style, but this WILL end k squared. And I'm pretty sure the guys are going to be consistent d-bags throughout, so I wouldn't go looking for this to get deep. There will be prolific cursing, there will be gayness, and there will probably be slight messing up of tenses, since I'm not used to switching back and forth. I'm pretty sure I already messed that up in this chapter. Anyway, reviews are appreciated- they get me to update and, as an added bonus, make me happy. So, uh, pretty please?


	2. It's Not Like I'm A Slut

**When The Hurricanes Came**

_Chapter Two_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Now that you've read this far, let me elaborate on my initial note in the first chapter…Have some k squared with a large amount of dub con on one of the k parts, an inkling or more of style, and even some…uh…Cartman/Kenny? I got bored at work, and instead of working on Brace Yourself like I was going to, I created…this…monstrosity of a thing. You guys are going to hate me so much for this one. SO MUCH. But anyway…like I said earlier, it will be nowhere near as long as what I normally do. So…uh…I'm lame.

_

* * *

It's not like I'm a slut or that I really like to fuck. I just want every boy I see to walk away with part of me until there's nothing left to hold, until there's nothing left to hate. I appreciate your help but even you can't save me from myself. _

_-Japanese Gum by Her Space Holiday-_

* * *

Ha! I fucking got you with that gun thing. I reeled you _in_.

I mean, it happens; I wouldn't lie to you. But you don't get to know why just yet. We were in the middle of a discussion if you recall.

Actually, I guess it was a monologue, but I like to pretend I'm not just talking to myself. That's the kind of thing that gets you locked up, and you don't want to be locked up with the crazies 'round these parts. We've got sheep fuckers man. Seriously, would you want to spend the next however many years of your life having conversations with guys who like to get their rocks off with poor, innocent sheep?

I thought not.

So, where were we?

Right at the beginning?

People tell me that's always the best place to start.

I just arrived at Jimbo's cabin when I heard the familiar crunch of _his_ footsteps. I knew it was Eric because man, the guy's fucking massive. I think that's like, a prerequisite to be a Marine, which he was for nearly half a year. Those dishonorable discharges are killer.

Of course we didn't expect anything less from Cartman.

I clambered out of my car to meet him, shivering. It was fucking cold, even for South Park. Eddies of snow skidded and swirled across the pavement, streaming like rivers of thought, like trout might fucking jump out amongst their wake. It was powdered sugar frosting on top of glistening, dangerous ice. I was lucky I'd made it up without careening into a tree.

"God, Kenneh. My grandmother drives faster than you. Those other douchebags are already here."

I cocked my head to the side and flashed him my middle finger, all the while locking up my car. Like anyone would want to steal the old junker. Like anyone would dare to come all the way up the mountain when everyone knew Jimbo's one trigger happy mother fucker.

"Are you even allowed to call people douchebags anymore? I thought they wash your mouth out for that at bible camp."

"Camp's out, ass licker," Cartman grinned, "Meaning I can say whatever the hell I want."

Ever since he got like, excommunicated from the Marines, Cartman's worked as a camp counselor at some Peace-Love-and-Jesus type after school camp, some real Boys and Girls Club shit. He claimed he found Jesus, but I've never known if that was true or if he just found the flyer that claimed they paid exorbitant salaries for counselors under his ass, between the couch cushions. I mean, sure, he's grown as a person since we were teenagers.

But he was still Cartman. He worked fulltime at the fucking customs office at the airport, just so he could make the lives of minorities living hell, so…Yeah, the Jesus thing never had me too convinced.

He didn't like that I wouldn't believe him. He always argued disparaging minorities was god's work and that by doing so, he was ultimately showing his devotion to the lord.

Eventually I just gave up the argument.

I never liked arguing with Eric anyway.

How do I put this? Things had changed since high school. Kyle and Stan had gone their separate ways, and yeah, that was a fucking shocker to be sure, but drifting apart is _normal_. That's what they say, right? Giving up on all your childhood fancies and some shit, that's what you're supposed to do when you're a big strong grownup.

Meanwhile, Cartman had forged ahead like we all knew he would, and I don't know if you know this, but they put Marines through a pretty strict regimen. Little, pudgy Eric Cartman, he grew up to be a man. A bear of a man, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest and abs that I would swear to this day give new meaning to the phrases rock hard and precision cut. Saw that shit in a diamond advertisement, but I'm damned if it doesn't describe my friend's stomach to a fucking tee. So now we get to the part that isn't so _normal_. You knew it was coming, right?

Well here it is. At the beginning of our story, that night at Jimbo's cabin I was head over heels over head again for Cartman. For the guy most likely to be voted onto America's Most Wanted.

It wouldn't have been so pathetic if he felt something back. If he'd seduced me into liking his Nazi-loving, ethnicity-hating, future-dictator ass. But he hadn't. It was all me.

You can't be everything to everyone. Sometimes you can't even be anything to the people you want most to mean something to. So I settled for being Cartman's, I don't know, his lackey. His pet poor person, always ready, always at his beck and call. It's not like I had anything better to do.

The worse part of it was, even if Cartman had known I had a boner for him the size of Illinois, he wouldn't have been able to do a damn thing about it. Because- and here's the kicker; that douchebaggy, Bluetooth-wearing, commune-living Jew I mentioned before? Yeah, Eric loved _him_.

Welcome to Days of Our Lives: South Park edition.

It gets better, just wait for it.

Remember that hard on I mentioned Kyle having for Stan? Hell, how Kyle coveted that boy despite the three year old snot was beyond me, but he did. And Stan just lived his pretty little life thinking Kyle was an asshole, even though it was a well known fact amongst all of us that back in the big HS days, our big man on campus wanked it to the resident Jew more than once. I guess once he realized all that _immaturity_ might rub off, the crush died. But not for Kyle.

I always thought it was kind of weird, the big gay love-in we all seemed to take part in. Then again, I always reasoned that its South Park. We're born inbred, and the four of us grew up like brothers. It only made sense to keep it in the family.

Am I right, or am I right?

How come I have a feeling I just scared half y'all off? Oh well, suckers. We didn't need them anyway; they're just gonna miss out on all the fun.

Right, so what was I talking about again? Probably my dorktastic crush on Cartman, yeah?

So anyway, Cartman slung his arm around my neck and guided me toward the cabin, babbling nonstop about some Hispanic dude he fucked over for a visa a few days prior at work. Then he started ragging on me about getting a job.

"Dude, I have a job."

Eric snorted and made a face, "You're a secretary at best. What do you get paid, like six dollars an hour?"

"Seven," I replied, insulted.

"Putting that bachelor's degree to good use, I see."

I didn't have anything at all to say to that. I let Cartman drag me in, like I had any other choice in the matter. Probably would've slipped three times on the icy-ass steps if he hadn't been holding my arm in his vice-like grip. The guy's got fingers of titanium, I swear.

Inside the cabin were my two favorite besties, lookin' like caged feral animals from the expressions on their faces. From the twist of Stan's lips I could tell he wouldn't have been able to stand another second alone with Kyle, and from the smirk tugging Kyle's mouth I could tell he would've loved another couple of decades alone with Stan. Love's twisted, man. Like- it _fucks_ with your head.

I'm living proof of that, but I'm rushing ahead again.

Cartman's eyes were like, magnetized for our Jew. They snapped towards him the second we walked in the door, greeted by a warm blast of air and decidedly icier glares. I kicked off my snow-soaked sneakers and socks, letting my feet sink into the carpet.

"Fuck, Kenny. Took you long enough," Kyle muttered, shoving a drink toward me. The glass was sweating and nearly slipped through my fingers but I have an extraordinary sense of preservation towards all forms of liquor, so I caught it by the rim and adjusted my grip. When I took a sip it tasted like fire, trickling down my throat and igniting my insides.

"Yeah, well, I'm here," I replied, falsely cheerful, "The party can officially begin."

Kyle ignored me, returning to the couch in front of the fireplace he'd been languishing on, and Stan rolled his eyes from where he hovered over the counter, examining the bottles we'd accumulated this year. Jimbo and his best friend are kind of the town alcoholics, if we're discounting my parents, anyway, and they always have a pretty sweet selection of whiskeys, vodkas, and schnapps. The fridge was fully stocked with shitty beer, and I could tell already we were in for one fun weekend. And by fun, I mean miserable. I could already picture the vomit, angry confessions, and fist fights.

I took a swig of whiskey for good measure, then plopped on the couch beside Kyle. He glared at me, probably hoping that Stan was going to sit there, and Cartman glared at me because he'd been vying for the seat too. The only person in the room who didn't cast me a nasty look was Stan; his bordered on relief. It was kind of sad, really, how far the super best friends had fallen. But then that's life for you. She's a real _bitch_.

"So. How's life, guys," I purred, nudging Kyle with my big toe. He swatted my foot away with a lethal look, but I ignored it.

"Great," Stan said with forced cheeriness, "My kids made me a Christmas card; it's the cutest thing. I should have brought it in."

That's Stan. Ever since he started teaching, it's been 'my kids' this and 'my kids' that. He acts more like a proud parent than an educator.

"Uh hunh," I nodded along like I gave a damn about South Park's rugrats, "And you Kyle?"

"Things are fine," he sipped his drink and refused to be any more forthcoming with information.

"Right. How's Bebe? Craig? Gregory?"

Yeah, that commune of an apartment I mentioned Kyle having? Those are his roommates. Bebe Stevens was pretty much our high school's resident slut, and she never even had hope of graduating once she discovered the joys of pot. She pretty much spends her days working at a diner and springing all her free cash on the freshest bounties of the local dealer.

Oh, and sleeping around. That's one habit that never really changed.

Craig Tucker's got this gig as a freelance photographer; weddings and shit, but he's a trip to talk to. He's got all these theories about Buddha and Krishna and Jesus and shit, and having a conversation with him is more psychedelic than any drug. Seriously, give it five minutes and you're like, enlightened.

Give it another five minutes for your head to clear and you'll be confused as fuck.

Plus he's like, a video game legend. Trust me, I used to chill with him in high school, and he kicked my ass. Every. Single. Time.

Then there's Gregory. He's a douche, just like Kyle. He works for some haughty corporation, walks around with a Bluetooth glued to his ear, and he goes to all these pompous, elite bars in Denver with everyone's favorite Jew. But soon as you yank that tie off, man, he's the worst of them. He's the one who bought their apartment's décor, the wall hangings from Nepal and the fucking coasters from Taiwan and some shit.

"Bebe's still on that whole free love kick. Can't even walk in the goddamned apartment without tripping over naked bodies."

My kind of scene.

"Craig's got a gallery opening in February, so he keeps drawing pictures of bloody hearts all over the place and claiming that they represent the human condition."

"Still not over Clyde, hmm?"

Clyde Donovan was another old high school buddy. Craig claims Clyde ripped out his heart and danced all over it to Peruvian panflute music, but really he just doesn't want to admit the kid got into a fancy private school in the Northeast on a football scholarship and never once looked back. They were never gay for each other as far as I know; just really fucking close. Then again, with this town, it's hard to tell.

"Not by a long shot," Kyle rolls his eyes, "And Greg's still full of himself. His company just got some defense contract, so he's constantly on the phone with Christophe 'til like, five in the morning discussing army stratagem."

"Army's for pansies," Cartman scoffs, adding in a 'ooh-rah' for good measure.

"Can we keep the capitalist regime's catchphrases to a minimum, please?" Kyle demands, eyeing Cartman irately.

"Can it, Jew. I am a Marine. I can't help it if your Jew-code does not tolerate my patriotism," Eric retorted mildly.

"You're not a Marine. They kicked you out," Kyle had no qualms about starting right in on him. Cartman was ready with a quick, spiteful insult to shoot back at the one he lusted after most, but lucky for me, Stan was in no mood to watch this open form of foreplay. I've been watching Cartman obsess over Kyle since we were four years old, when malicious barbs were the only way he knew how to communicate. It gets old, fast.

"Guys. Let's just- drink," Stan held up a glass full of amber liquid, waving it around like it was some kind of magical elixir.

"Amen to that," I muttered, chugging back the rest of my whiskey, which lanced straight through me. It was a shame to down fine liquor like that, but man, I was not excited for the weekend. At all. Kyle was already touching on my last nerve, and I wasn't sure if I could make it through this year's gathering without socking him one.

Not that it would be anything new; two years before Kyle and Stan had gotten into a wicked scuffle, and a year before that it had been Kyle and Cartman going at it.

Kyle was always at the center of those fights it seemed. Which- okay, not entirely his fault. When I call Kyle a douchebag, I mean in it fond terms. Kind of. It's hard to really hate the kid; the fact that Stan managed so long was kind of a miracle to me, because hell, he's charismatic. Just because he has a massive superiority complex doesn't mean he's not fun to be around. Only, see, I kind of despised him for usurping Cartman's affections.

I know, not the nicest reason for hating someone's guts.

At least it was something to do. Cartman hadn't exaggerated when he called me a secretary. I worked at a glorified hair salon inside the PC Mall, like I said earlier, and it was kind of suckage. And by kind of, I mean it _was_. I spent my days surrounded by old women; let me paint a clear picture of that one for you. Nose hair. Wrinkles. Blue curls and cracked calluses. You don't know what awkward is until some ninety year old grandma comes up to you asking for the nearest 'adult' store and you mistake the word 'adult' for grown up clothes because you don't want to think of Miss Daisy there shoppin' for dildos.

We had these promos, like where you spend forty bucks on a cut and you get a twenty dollar gift card to use on your next visit, maybe for a dye or something? Yeah, I've had to explain a million of those to downright belligerent old ladies who want to know why they couldn't have their gift card Right This Minute. It doesn't seem like much, but fuck, that kind of constant verbal and emotional abuse wears on a man.

Cartman's the only one who came in on his days off and treated me like a human being. Is it any wonder I fell for the guy?

Anyway, we all started drinking, 'cause Lord knows we had nothing to talk about. 'Round two o'clock in the morning, Stan was so trashed that he evacuates the cabin for the front porch to drunk dial his most recent string of ex girlfriends, all of whom hung up on him within five seconds of answering, 'cause talking to drunken Stan is kind of like talking to one of them crazy homeless dudes on the streets of Denver. He was all fire and brimstone and tears; most pathetic thing I ever did see.

Kyle was watching the whole thing with this real keen look in his eye, calculating, like maybe he could somehow take advantage of the situation. Had I been raised to be a better guy, I might have actually watched him, tried to make sure that Stan kept a good hold on his rumored anal virginity. As it was though, I was more preoccupied with watching Cartman sing a rousing course of Sweet Caroline into a beer bottle, wondering what it would take to get him to like me the way I wanted to. Which, I know, was so _obvious_.

Like I said, love makes us all morons.

Anyway, half an hour passed of Cartman stuttering over the name 'Caroline' and I looked up to find Kyle nowhere in sight. It wasn't even three yet, so I knew the fucker hadn't retired to bed or anything, and my first thought was- Stan.

Well, Stan was still out on the porch, crying to his freshman year fuck buddy and catching himself hypothermia.

So, curious, despite myself, I went a searching- really, it's the McCormick curse. We have this insatiable curiosity that always gets us is the darndest situations. Like hey, that one legged dude looks pretty tough- I wonder if I could take him in a bar brawl? Dad. Or hey, that prostitute's mouth looks gnarly. Wonder if she has the clap? Kevin. Or even, hey, Kinneh, I think I saw a bear in the basement. Why don'tchu scurry on down there and take a look? That would be mom, to me. And how I ended up getting locked in our basement until I agreed to scrub and scour it 'til it shined.

Anyhow, I went looking for Kyle. He was on the back porch, smoking a cigarette that smelled faintly of cloves and watching snow spiral down from the sky.

"'Sup?" I greeted him, wondering if he wanted company.

"Hey, Kenny," he waved the clove at me, but I passed.

"Why you out here on your lonesome?" I questioned, grabbing us a couple beers from inside the screen door.

"You mean why aren't I trying to jump Stan?"

"Well, yeah. The thought had crossed my mind."

Kyle used the mottled wood of the railing to open our beers, and handed mine back. He took a long gulp from his bottle, and then said, "Stan and I- I don't think we're going to happen."

"Why not?"

The 'cause he hates your intestines, not to mention all your other soft and hard tissues' went unsaid.

"He's doing his own thing, and I don't fit in there. He wants the American dream, the white picket fence and the dog and kids-"

"And a wife?" I chipped in.

"And that," Kyle replied wryly, "There might have been a point where he wanted me, but I missed my chance."

"Oh," I stared up at the clouds and tried to think of something nice to say. It had been such a long time since I'd had a heart to heart with Kyle, when during high school he'd pretty much been my go-to source of advice. It was strange, feeling like I was talking to a stranger, when really this kid had talked me through a whole volley of firsts. The first time I had sex, the first time I got an A, the first time I talked to the 'rents about college. Kyle was _there_ for all that shit, but he'd changed, and I didn't know what to do with a stranger.

Still, I was savoring the fact that he was even talking to me about it.

"I was thinking maybe I should go for someone else. Someone who likes me," his lips, playing at the edge of the bottle, curved, "Someone like Cartman."

My heart stopped. No, literally, man. It skidded to a halt in my chest. My lungs tightened, and I swear they could have turned to ice sculptures inside me and I wouldn't have been surprised, "What do you- whaddyou mean?"

"He's into me. I can tell," Kyle grinned, and it was almost sinister in the blue light of the falling snow, "What do you think."

"You- you can't."

"Why? Because _you_ like Cartman?"

"I- fuck, Kyle. How did you know?"

"It's hard not to with you making moon eyes at him. I'm shocked he hasn't figured it out."

"You can't tell him."

"I have no intentions of _telling _him. Having sex with him, maybe…"

"You can't!" I hated how high and pitchy my voice got when I protested.

"Why not? It's what he wants, isn't it?" Kyle was leaning in closer to me, but I didn't see it. I was full on panicking about the fact that my world was just about to shatter.

"But it's not what I-" I caught what I was saying, how horrible I was being, but I didn't care.

"Kenny, Kenny, Kenny. You're being selfish. You really want to take Eric's happiness away?" Kyle asked me, and I was entranced by the lilt in his voice.

"I-" I turned my head in shame, "If you take him, I'll be alone."

Kyle thought about it. I don't know now if he was acting, or if he was really mulling the problem over, but either way he whispered in my ear, "Then why don't you take his place?"

"You want me to- fuck you?"

"Not just that, Kenny. Be mine. Then I won't have to worry about Stan, or Cartman."

"If I- do this, you won't go after him?"

Kyle's eyes glowed green, intense as he solemnly swore, "I promise."

"…I'm in."

He leaned towards me, those jewel-eyes overtaking my vision. And there, in the snow, with my heart close to breaking, he kissed me.

Moments like that burn so fucking bright that it's hard to see anything else around the glow. We remember the good times and we remember the hard times, and we let everything else slip between the cracks with barely a whimper.

When Kyle's tongue slipped into my mouth, I knew I'd be remembering for a long, long time.

When we stumbled up the stairs to Jimbo's room, I knew it'd be hard to ever forget.

When he began taking off my clothes, I knew I never would.

* * *

A/N: No worries. Kyle is not the villain of this piece. He just seems like it. I love Kyle; it'd be impossible for me to ever make him into a truly bad guy. So, on a completely unrelated note, I'm sick of living at home and doing nothing but writing/reading/marathoning Criminal Minds and Doctor Who. I have thus decided to occupy my free time by learning how to cook Japanese and Indian food. Does anyone have any good recipes for any and all things Japanese/Indian? Or any good recipes for something else that I'd be interested in making? Let me know!


	3. So Now I'll Never Explore

**When The Hurricanes Came**

_Chapter Three: So Now I'll Never Explore_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: I'm a big fan of the song that inspired this chapter, because I think it's creepy. I mean, I understand that it's about finding the person you were looking for and everything, but the line that is this chapter title just makes me shiver, like finding the person you need is like finding your way into a prison. But anyway, lovely song.

_

* * *

I don't have to leave anymore, what I have is right here. Spend my nights and days before searching the world for what's right here. Underneath and unexplored. Islands and cities I have looked. Here I saw something I couldn't overlook. I am yours now, so now I don't ever have to leave. I've been found out, so now I'll never explore. _

_-Islands by the xx-_

* * *

The one thing I always liked about Kyle, before the dark ages of weed and self importance, was how he just didn't give a fuck. Stan, Cartman, and him all came from middle class families, but Mr. Broflovski's law firm put him on the upper side of that caste. Did Kyle care? Nah, he fucking came to school dressed in Levi's and plaid work shirts, just like the rest of us. He didn't try to be a haughty asshole, unless it was on something he knew he had the right to- like being smart, or basketball, or whooping all our asses at Call of Duty.

So I guess I kind of expected that night at Jimbo's cabin to be a onetime thing. I mean, yeah, he'd mindfucked me into having sex with him, but I'd attributed it to him being drunk and horny. I sure as hell had been.

The part where he'd asked me to be his was just a hazy blip in the back of my mind.

Anyway, the following morning, or late afternoon if I'm totally honest, I woke up with a massive hangover and an empty bed. Would've thought the whole thing had been a dream if it wasn't for the fact that Kyle seemed to have nabbed my shirt on the way downstairs, which left me with his hippie-ass stanky concert tee from the seventies. He'd probably nicked it from his dad.

I didn't care much; just pulled it over my head and made my way down the rickety steps toward the kitchen in hopes of finding some Tylenol and a sandwich. All of us had shared clothes at one time or another, except for Cartman. Kyle, Stan, and I were all about the same build, and there had been a time back in high school when we'd all shared the same taste. After a night of binge drinking and a morning of class to look forward to, we'd learned quick not to get too picky about whose shit was whose. Still, it had been a long time since I'd found myself in an article of clothing that belonged to Kyle, and I could smell him on it; the spice of his body spray and the scent of herb and the musk of his deodorant. It was familiar, and it kind of made me nostalgic.

I squashed those feelings real quick though. The last thing I needed was to start getting squishy emotions about the guy who'd basically blackmailed me into bed the previous night.

Stan was puttering around in a pair of sweatpants and nothing much else, barefoot on the icy cold linoleum. He'd obviously filched my idea about the sandwich, 'cause a whole row of condiments was spread out before him on the kitchen counter.

"Hey, Kenny," Stan gave me this weary grin, like sleep was an estranged lover he hadn't seen much of lately, "Long night."

"Did, uh…Hannah ever decide to take you back?"

"Heidi," Stan corrected sternly, like I should have remembered his sixth grade girlfriend's name, "And no."

"Wise choice. I wouldn't want to date some douche who called me piss-faced at two in the morning either."

"Har de har har. You know, friends are supposed to stop you from that kind of thing."

"Man, I tried. You were like, Siamese bonded to that cell phone. I tried to wrench it out of your hand and swear to fucking god, I heard a ripping sound."

"I would flip you off but that would take way, way too much effort," he groaned and propped his elbows on the counter, dangling his head between them and looking more than a little green.

"Don't puke on the mayonnaise," I snatched up the bottle clutched in his left hand, and then added brightly, "Better yet. Don't puke in the kitchen at all."

"You're a jerk," still bent over the counter, one hand flew to his mouth to keep him from retching. I observed, mildly interested.

"Where'd Kyle and Eric get to?"

When he finally recovered his speaking faculties, Stan said, "I think they're jogging."

"Jogging?"

My heart sunk. Cartman jogged every single morning. It was a remnant of his Marine Corp days, and I couldn't have said I minded the effort. He's a big guy, and he still looks pretty blubbery, but I happened to know that a lot of that fatty tissue is muscle now. He's always wanted to get that lean look most buff guys have, but he just can't seem to make it happen, and I'm pretty sure it kills him.

Kyle though, he never exercises if he can help it. The only sport he's ever been interested in was basketball, and once it became evident he wasn't going pro in college, he gave up on keeping in shape. Doesn't mean he's fat or anything; Broflovskis have mean metabolisms, apparently. They burn calories like mofos. Or at least, the male side of the family does.

Poor Sheila.

Anyway, my heart basically dropped down to my feet, because all I could think about was Kyle's threat that he'd seduce Cartman. Running in the snow sodden mountains wasn't exactly something that screamed sexy-time, but Kyle's a devious little bastard. I didn't trust him as a far as I could throw him.

"Kenny?" Stan said carefully, lifting his sickly green face to meet my eyes, "What's wrong?"

"Um. Uh. Dude, I'm like- worried you're going to ralph on the counter."

Stan opened his mouth to answer but ended up making a retching noise instead. He sprinted to the bathroom faster than I'd seen him run since high school.

About half an hour later, I'd ravenously devoured two was well on my way through a third when I heard footsteps pound the porch. I waited a beat, and sure enough, Cartman barreled inside, his hair matted to his head with sweat and half melted snowflakes, Kyle at his heels. Stan was still sequestered away in the downstairs bathroom, presumably getting reacquainted with everything he'd had to drink the previous night.

"Kenneh," Cartman frowned at my sandwich, dripping condiments messily all over my plate, "That is so unhealthy."

He then proceeded to march to the cupboard and grab a bag of Cheesy Poofs. Behind him, Kyle smiled at me and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

"How was your run, _guys_," I asked sweetly, propping my feet up on the coffee table and staring straight at the redhead. I expected him to shift guiltily from foot to foot, but to my surprise, he met my eyes and kept the smile.

"Why? Did you want to come?" he asked, all innocence and halos.

"Of course Po' Boy didn't want to come. The only thing he runs from are the five oh," Cartman tore open his bag of orangey chips and chortled, like he'd made the most fantastic joke in the universe. At my expense.

Okay, I said I liked the guy- not that he was a shining example of dignity or goodness. I mean, I knew going into it that he was basically Hitler's latest incarnation. Basically, the trick was not to let jibes like that get to me.

"Fuck, man. Them flashing lights is scary," I said in my best imitation of my dad's Southern drawl.

"I'm taking a shower," Cartman completely ignored me in favor of shooting a glare in Kyle's direction, "Don't come crawling in to take a look, faggot."

"Like I'd want to see your fat ass naked," Kyle made a face that was the picture of revulsion. I wondered about the genuineness of it; was he playacting for my sake, or did he really find the idea of Cartman's bare butt revolting? The latter would've meant that his whole blackmail ploy was based off the fact that I'm entirely too gullible, and I didn't think Kyle had the balls for that level of manipulation. He had to be faking it. Fucker.

"All the same," Eric narrowed his eyes, "I'm bringing my gun in with me, and if I hear a jewrat coming up the stairs…"

He made a 'bang-bang' gesture with his fingers. I could tell Kyle was appropriately intimidated; that is to say, not at all. Cartman can be scary to people who don't know him. Hell, he can be scary to people who do ninety percent of the time. But as we've gotten older, we've learned that when it's just us, he's less likely to make good on his threats. Somewhere, deep, deep inside him, he actually likes having us around.

Once Cartman disappeared up the stairs, Kyle turned to me, a smirk playing over his lips.

"You were jealous," he told me, blunt, with an edge of playfulness.

"I wasn't."

Kyle sidled up beside me, and the scent of his sweat mixed with brewery smells- beer, cigarettes, and sex lingered on his skin.

"I hope not. Forget what you promised already?"

"I-" I was confused for a moment, and my faltering voice tipped him off.

His jaw tightened and he said, "Kenny, you said you'd be mine."

"Yours?" I couldn't help my short bark of laughter. I had said it, but I'd thought it was a joke.

"Is that funny?"

"I just don't get why that's something you'd want, dude. Are you even attracted to me?"

He pressed up against me, and through his sweat pants, I could feel his hard on.

"What do you think?"

Oh.

Two nights later, we rang the New Year in with bottles of cheap champagne and so much noise that Officer Barbrady came to call. Twice.

May I remind y'all we were on a fucking mountain? We're loud assholes.

The day Kyle and Eric came back from jogging, Kyle had pinned me down on the couch and gone down on me. It was humiliating, and it was beyond awkward; Stan had finally stumbled from the bathroom seconds after Kyle swallowed my cum with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. Later that night, drunk and rowdy, we'd fucked again.

Fast forward to that night, to New Year's Eve, and I was counting down the seconds until my friend tackled me into bed again with a mix of dread and excitement.

I don't want to make it sound like he was taking advantage of me, but fuck, there's no way to spin it. He was blackmailing me into having sex with him, which is nine kinds of horrible…but I can't say I wasn't enjoying it. I can't say that when his mouth was on my dick I wanted to scream 'no, rape!'

Even if Kyle was a bastard, he was good in the sack, and I was so damned lonely. He may have been using me, but I can't lie and say that I was using him back, just a little.

What I'm saying here is, yeah, it was an effed up situation, but don't go calling the cops on the kid or anything. Story's not over yet.

Anyway, I was also wonderin' what was going to happen the next day, when we all left Jimbo's cabin to be perfect strangers again for another year. Would Kyle make good on his threat and go after Cartman if I didn't drive to his apartment for daily blowjobs, or was our contract null and void the second we crossed the town borders? The thought did weird things to my heart, because this year, I didn't want to go back to being strangers. Not with Kyle or Eric, and not with Stan, either. I liked having my friends around again, for the first time in ages. Even if our conversations were less than civil, and even if we had to keep Kyle and Stan separated for half the weekend, I wanted to keep them around.

They made me feel, I don't know. Complete.

Anyway, New Year's Eve. I was wondering, waiting, anticipating.

I was also gulping down champagne like it was fucking orange juice, possibly 'cause I kept mixing orange juice in my glass and making some girly ass mimosas, but they tasted good.

I kind of think it was all the liquor's fault. Me cracking, that is.

Like an egg.

See, champagne makes everything all kind of bubbly and bright, for a little while. The edges of the cabin softened as I argued with Stan about shit that barely mattered drunk, and doesn't matter at all sober.

Midway through the argument, I felt a warm body press against mine. My first hazy thought was of Eric, but he was so absorbed in the countdown on TV that he could barely be bothered to glance in my direction. I turned my chin to confirm it was Kyle, and it was; he was looking at me with clear intent, and he didn't even seem to care that I'd been mid-discussion with Stan.

"Do I get a kiss at midnight?" he mumbled in my ear, loud enough so Stan could hear it.

"Gross, dude!" he paled, watching the both of us, joking brokenly, "Kenny, you'll contract something."

I didn't stop to think about why Stan suddenly looked more ill than he had when he was hung over a few days prior, and I didn't bother dignifying Kyle's question with an answer. At least, not a verbal one.

Blame it on the alcohol, just like the song says.

When midnight struck, Kyle forcibly dragged me upstairs, his lips locked on my neck, his tongue dragging heated trails across my collarbone. He slammed the door to the bedroom he'd been allotted, locking it behind him, and the second he did, I pushed him away from me. Hard.

And let me tell you how much self control that took, because fuck, was I horny. Guess I had some real righteous anger built up.

"Jesus, _Kenneth,_" Kyle yelped, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What are we doing?" I asked, shocked at how level my voice was, at how I wasn't trembling with rage or slurring my words.

"Um. Fucking? Is that a trick question?"

The room was dark, and the snow outside was really picking up, turning into one hell of a blizzard.

"Why?"

Kyle's gaze turned guarded, "What do you mean?"

"Why the fuck are we _fucking_, dude? Are you really that hard up that you need to blackmail someone into bed, or is there something else?"

The second I said it, I could hear his sharp inhalation. I wasn't stupid. Kyle's an attractive guy. Thing is, he wasn't hard up for sex. I knew he wasn't. All those clubs he went to with Gregory usually were filled to the brim with girls throwing themselves at Kyle, who even as a dick had this kind of inner beauty that made people want to be near him. Like moths to a flame.

What it all added up to was that there was a reason he wanted to be with me.

"It's not- I'm not," he concluded nothing at all.

"Tell me why then! Tell me fucking why," I commanded, the harsh bite of my words making him wince. His green eyes glowed in the darkness, ethereal, like a cat's as he cringed away from me, from my anger. I felt something twist inside my gut, and I wasn't sure where it had come from, if it had been lying dormant inside me all this time.

I'd like to say that up until then the only feelings I'd ever had for Kyle were purely platonic, but in the spirit of honesty- I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth- I can't do that.

I'd be lying.

Thing is, back in high school, Kyle Broflovski had been an entirely different creature, a horse of a different color, like they say in the _Wizard of Oz_. My little sister fucking loves that movie, and I can quote it like nobody's business.

Wait, I was talking about Kyle. So, yeah. High school Kyle was like, a model student, which I think I've mentioned before, but he was also kind of an amazing guy. Not amazing the same way Stan is. Kyle's never possessed the ability to make people feel comfortable in their own skin like Stan Marsh (he's always been able to get _under_ people's skin, which I guess is an equally formidable talent), but he had his own brand of ambition, charisma, and pure, unadulterated confidence. A lot of people viewed that brand as douchey geek chic, but for me, man, it was an aphrodisiac.

To understand why I found it attractive, you have to understand that my years in high school were less than stellar, and as a role model I wasn't exactly exemplary. I'd had more than one brush with the law, not all of which were my fault. My big brother Kevin had rarely been an upstanding citizen and liked to drag me into his messes, if only to show me I wasn't any better than he was.

On top of that, my love life consisted of flings with strings of girls sporting short skirts, plastic smiles, and eau de Trailer Trash wafting after them. My self-esteem relied on the happiness of my three best friends, and all the ways I could factor into that happiness, which seemed to be less and less as our senior year approached. By the end of our time as sophomores, I knew they'd all be leaving for college too soon, deserting me in our crazy, Podunk town.

I was faced with a choice; act out more, become zanier, more spectacular, and more memorable. I could make it so that they'd never forget me, even if my life culminated in one big accident; a drag race gone wrong or a drug overdose, one last moment that would burn more brightly than a dying star. Or, I could get my act together. Kyle was the one who helped me do it. He practically made the choice for me, roping me into study sessions and extracurricular that kept me so busy it became impossible to find the time to act out, even if I'd wanted to.

The day I got my first college acceptance letter was the day I knew I was falling for him.

Which was a problem. The girls who liked Kyle were rarely bubble-headed cheerleader bitches or sweet Pollyannas, the ones who flocked to Stan's football games and either cheered in skin tight clothes on the sidelines or simply idolized him from afar. These girls were vixens, sassy and overwhelming minxes with their self-assurance that they were the hottest thing Park County had ever seen, that they were the only girls who would ever be good enough for a sexy prodigy like our resident Jew. They ran on the fringe of our town's cliques, but they drew every guy's attention and every girl's envy. He still had the humility back then not to give into aggressive advances and basically ignored flirting from any female types, but one or two roped him into their games. It was soul-crushing, from my perspective.

Even if they hadn't existed, there was still Stan to think about. Those were after all the days of their super best butt-fucking, although as far as I know Kyle had no idea about Stan's feelings back then. They pretty much vanished post high school, right around when Kyle's began developing.

Now it was hard to find anything of the old Kyle in him though. Different model, same sleek design, man.

Anyway, I didn't really think that Kyle could- that maybe he liked me. But like I said, I'm not an idiot, and the blackmail thing just didn't make any sense. If he really liked Cartman, and if he really thought he wouldn't reciprocate those feelings, which I well knew Eric _would_, the only thing stopping him would have been me. So why would having sex with _me_ be the optimal solution? So maybe Kyle did like me. It was the only explanation that made sense.

I really didn't want it to be true.

Kyle stared at me, and I knew what he was thinking. When did we go from sleeping together to love confessions? Zero to sixty in less than sixty seconds?

"Because-" his words cut off and his eyes went dark, defensive. When he spoke again, his voice was desperate, "Can't that be the reason?"

"It's not enough," I choked out, thinking of Cartman, thinking of all the ways he'd always been there for me and all the ways Kyle never had.

"Please?" he begged, "Can't this all just be- because?"

"I need more than a 'just because', Kyle," I replied softly, and I hated myself for making his expression twist like that, even though it shouldn't have bothered me. My crush on him was a faded scar. He was nothing more than a friend, but it didn't mean I liked to see my friends hurt. It didn't mean I wanted to see him so completely ruined.

"I-" I could see the words form on his lips. I could see the shape of them, the color. And I think it wouldn't have mattered if he'd actually said them, because I didn't believe it. I wouldn't let myself believe it.

Lucky me, Kyle Broflovski chose that night to be a coward.

"I can't," he said instead of those fairytale words, the ones that I never would have trusted, "I just- can't."

"Okay," I nodded, like I'd expected that to be his answer. I'd wanted it to be his answer, because I wasn't ready for anything else. I'd spent so long lusting after Cartman from afar that I had no idea what to do with a living, breathing person who actually wanted me.

Nobody in their right minds _wanted _me.

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A/N: Please review!


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